I took five or ten minutes, and when I came back the big stone house with the manicured lawn and shrubbery looked just as I had left it, with the same lights glowing in the same windows. I couldn't tell if anyone was home or not, because just about everybody with a house leaves lights on routinely, figuring that a darkened house is an invitation to burglars. (To this burglar, a completely unlighted house suggests that the occupants are at home and asleep, though admittedly that doesn't hold until the late hours.)
Apartment dwellers are more apt to darken the place when they go out, figuring reasonably enough that anyone wishing to kick the door in would do so without being able to tell whether the lights were on or off on the other side of it. The occasional break-in was just a chance you had to take, whereas a high Con Ed bill was a certainty, month in and month out.
But people in houses feel more vulnerable, and also feel they ought to be able to do something about it. For a while you could spot the empty houses by the lights that stayed on all night, blazing away at four in the morning to announce their owners' absence, but nowadays everybody has lights on timers, winking on and off in realistic fashion.
It's all part of the eternal game, a domestic version of the arms race. They keep coming up with better locks and more sophisticated alarm systems, and reprobates like me keep finding ways to get past the locks and around the alarm systems. The same technology that reinforces a door provides me with a new way to get through it.
Were the Mapeses home? There were ways to find out no matter how clever they were with their lights. I could call them on the phone and see if they answered. Voice mail and answering machines muddy the waters some, and when a machine picks up there's no guarantee there's nobody home. The next step is to ring the doorbell. Even if they don't come to the door-and why should they, if it's the middle of the night?-you almost always get some indication of occupancy. They switch on a light, they walk around, they make noise, and the painstaking burglar slinks away, and lives to steal another day.
And, finally, there's something else, an instinct you tend to develop, a sense you get just standing outside of a door as to whether or not there's someone with a pulse on the other side of it. It's not infallible, that instinct, and it's subject to influence by such forces as impatience and wishful thinking, but it's there, and you get to a point where you learn to rely on it.
And what did it tell me?
It told me I was standing in front of an empty house. There was no evidence pointing me toward this conclusion, no logical argument against their presence. It was just a feeling I had.
But what difference could it possibly make? I wasn't here to break and enter. There would be plenty of time for that on Friday, when I wouldn't need my intuition to let me know the place was empty becauseDon Giovanni would guarantee it. And I'd have a helper along, and a car to carry me and my helper and our well-gotten gains quickly and safely away. All I had to do now was figure out how, come Friday, I was going to get inside of the goddam place.
The first thing I did was check the windows. I'd already spotted the metallic tape on the first-floor windows (which a burglar from Britain or the Continent would call the ground-floor windows, due to a cultural predisposition to begin counting at the top of a flight of stairs rather than at the bottom). Sometimes, though, a homeowner will save time and money by wiring the more accessible windows into the alarm system but leaving out those he figures are too remote for a burglar to get to. After all, does he really want to have to close every window in the house before he sets the alarm? He might want to leave the odd upstairs window open for ventilation. Simpler, isn't it, to leave the upper windows untaped? And just as safe, too, right?
Simpler, perhaps; safe, perhaps not. If a window a flight up would provide Kilgore-free access, how hard would it be to bring along a telescoping aluminum ladder long enough to get me up and in? And, if that turned out to be the sesame that would open the Mapes house, I could pop into the garage tonight and see if they might not have a ladder I could borrow. I'd put it back when I was finished, and in the same condition I found it.
I took a good look, and knew I didn't have to break into the garage because a ladder wouldn't do me any good. The windows on the second floor had metallic tape on them. (There was a chance, slim but real, that the tape on the upstairs windows was just for show, just as there's a chance that a 100-to-1 shot will sweep the Triple Crown. It's possible, sure, but you wouldn't want to bet the rent money on it.)
How about the basement windows? They're small, and their panes get broken and aren't always replaced right away, and basements are dirty and cluttered and yucky, home to spiders and centipedes and things that go slither in the night, and you don't go there unless you have to, so who would even think that a basement window might be a burglar's way in? Could he even fit through a basement window if he wanted to? And why would he want to?
The basement windows were all rimmed with the same metallic tape. That was disappointing but not surprising, and at least I hadn't had to crane my neck to find out I wasn't going to get in that way.
And the third-floor windows? I couldn't tell from where I stood, and I couldn't see what difference it made. I'm all right with heights, but I'm not crazy enough to climb two stories on a housebreaking expedition. Even if I could find a ladder that would reach that far, and even if I could brace it so that it wouldn't slip out from under me, I wasn't willing to spend that much time that exposed to the gaze of anyone who happened to glance my way. There are any number of illegal things you can do that can appear innocent to a casual glance, but climbing into a third-story window is not one of them.
Okay, forget the windows. Forget the doors, too. What did that leave?
The house, like all the others on the block, had been built at least three-quarters of a century ago. It was obviously prewar (which will always mean World War II when you're talking about New York real estate, no matter how many wars have been fought since then, just as antebellum will always refer to the War Between the States, and antediluvian will always indicate Noah's flood, unless you happen to live in Johnstown) and my guess was that it had been built in the 1920s. I could find out for certain, but it didn't matter. What was significant was that it had almost certainly been equipped originally with a coal furnace, and that meant a coal cellar, and that meant a chute down which the delivery vehicle could pour the stuff.
That in turn meant a wooden cellar door, probably built to lean against the rear of the house at an angle of somewhere between forty-five and sixty degrees. Remember the song "Playmate"? Oh, sure you do, and it's got nothing to do with magazine centerfolds.Playmate, come out and play with me/And with my dollies three/Climb up my apple tree/Shout down my rain barrel/Slide down my cellar door/ And we'll be jolly friends/Forevermore.
They don't write 'em like that anymore, but then neither do they make cellar doors you can slide down. They did when they built the Mapes house, however. People kept them locked, generally securing them with a padlock, but how the hell did you tie a padlocked wooden cellar door into a burglar alarm system?
There may be a way, but the whole thing became academic when I went around to the back of the house and tried to find the entrance to the coal cellar. They'd had one, sure enough, but somewhere along the way it had been removed, with brickwork and concrete filling in where the opening had been. I could get in, all right, but not without a jackhammer, and they tend to draw attention.
Rats.
There's always a way in, I told myself. It makes a nice mantra, but even as I ran it through my mind I found myself beginning to doubt the universal verity of it. What if there wasn't always a way in?